Lessons in Grace
by ackeberlynn
Summary: A series of one-shots exploring the growth of friendships/relationships on board the Enterprise, guided by the theme of "grace" in its many definitions and forms.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: Just a little somethin', somethin' that will probably/hopefully turn into a little more.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing but the plot.

I am officially a cheeseball. Reviews would be greatly appreciated.

**Chapter 1**: What's in a Name?

**Synopsis**: In which Yeoman Rand considers transferring off of the _Enterprise_, and Jim Kirk is misunderstood.

_Grace [greys] –Idiom: to be in someone's good/bad graces = to be regarded by someone with favor or disfavor._

* * *

"_The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place." –George Bernard Shaw_

* * *

Jim loathed paper.

"How many more of these do we have left, Janice?" he groaned, slumping back into his chair.

"I'll need your signatures on at least four more forms, _Captain_," she emphasized the last word.

"And it's _Yeoman Rand_, not Janice, sir."

First names were so informal, yet Captain Kirk insisted on referring to everyone on the _Enterprise_ by their first names (or nicknames) during off-duty hours or times when he was speaking with a crewmember one-on-one. Janice didn't like it. She _wanted_ to be Yeoman Rand—she'd worked her ass off for that title.

The Captain's blasé treatment of rank titles didn't impress her. He might very well be attempting in some way to boost cohesion and morale among the 400-plus Starfleet personnel on board, but in her eyes it was degrading. Even more, she took it personally when he called her Janice, resenting the charming twinkle in those cerulean eyes.

She knew of the Captain's history—his name had always been a hot one in the gossip mill back at the academy—she'd heard through grapevine stories of his often-dangerous escapades and wild debaucheries. How this troublemaker ever made it to the Captain's seat was beyond her, and she wrote off his informalities as nothing but rebelliousness; just another example of Jim Kirk 'sticking it to the man'.

No matter how many charming smiles or witticisms Captain Kirk threw her way, she could not bring herself to respect the man. To him, she was just a woman, and not even one of high rank (though she was damn satisfied with her position); to him she was an object—something pretty to look at and to wait on him hand and foot. With any other Captain she wouldn't have minded, but she had it in her head that James T. Kirk was nothing but a reckless womanizing chauvinist. And so now whenever Captain Kirk called her 'Janice', all she could think was that he used her first name because he did not respect her as a professional, nor as a woman who had worked her way into a prestigious position_—'I'm Yeoman Rand damn it, is it too much for him say?'_—and it grated against her nerves.

In fact, she had been considering transferring of late. She knew people on _U.S.S. Templeton_, a smaller vessel but a starship nonetheless, and would be perfectly content to work anywhere but underneath the authority of her current Captain. The only thing that stopped her was her own stubbornness. She'd never quit anything in her life, and wasn't about to start now just because things were difficult. Deep down though, she wondered if she could last the next four years of the _Enterprise's _voyage without cracking.

She sighed, watching her Captain's sluggish movements, the way he kept yawning every couple minutes, as if this was the most boring task in the universe.

Again, she took it personally. She had pleaded for this meeting to go over stacks upon stacks of backed up paperwork. He finally agreed to meet with her this late in the evening (now the wee hours of the morning), which she interpreted as an act of procrastination. Still, at least _she_ had shown up alert and ready to do the work. He, on the other hand, looked disheveled, tired, and unprepared. Obviously he didn't value the administrative tasks that were so necessary in order for a starship to function. Obviously he did not think her job or her time was important.

It wouldn't be the first time. Over the past nine months he had made a habit of not showing up to her appointments, taking an inordinate amount of time to return her communications, and whining about almost every task she asked him to perform. He avoided her, and in doing so, avoided the work. She really had her hands full, and he didn't seem to care. Eventually all this pent-up tension was going to come to a head, she knew, resulting in either her getting transferred or getting fired. She certainly hoped it was the former.

Tonight the Captain seemed to be doing everything possible to communicate to her how boring this was to him. She noted the way he held a document really close to his face, squinted his eyes, and sighed loudly.

"What's this one say?" Kirk asked dully, handing the paper back to her.

'_Oh of course. Trying once again to brush the work off on me.' _

"I'm quite certain you know how to read, sir," Janice snidely retorted before clamping her mouth shut in horror.

'_Did I just say that?' S_uch disrespect was grounds for insubordination and even dismissal.

He just looked at her, and for the first time she noticed the exhaustion written in the lines on his face, around his eyes, and the dark smudges underneath them.

It was then that her mind recalled the reason _why_ he was so backed up on paperwork—the reason why she was in the office of his quarters at 0100 trying to get his scribbled penmanship on a stack of official forms and documents.

The Captain had been badly injured on the last mission, and had spent no less than a week in sickbay. He'd been released from the watch-care of Dr. McCoy only yesterday, and was no doubt still recovering. She'd been on leave that week—a much needed break spent with her family and friends back on earth. Having only heard about the horrors of the last mission in brief, she had certainly not considered the notion that the Captain's fatigue tonight was due to his weakened physical state, rather than laziness or boredom or the usual lack of respect for authority.

A bit chagrined, she tried to stammer out an apology. "Captain, I—"

He cut her off with a lethargic wave of his hand. "Never mind. It's late. I'm sure you're tired."

His gaze wandered, and she watched him wince as he shifted in his chair. Compassion and guilt bloomed suddenly in Janice's chest. She cleared her throat.

"Did you need me to clarify something in that report, sir?"

He frowned slightly, set the paper down on the desk, and scrubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Yeah…I'm having trouble reading it…must be the poor lighting."

She did not bother to point out that the lights in the room were at 70 percent, and that his inability to decipher the print on the page was most likely due to his extreme fatigue.

Gently, she picked up the paper from the desk and began to read it to him, line by line.

By the time she was done she could tell he was close to dosing off, but she said nothing as he signed his name on the dotted line. She absently wondered how he would last through the next three forms.

"Paper," he mumbled suddenly, shaking her from her thoughts. "How does it even still exist?"

"Sir?"

He looked at her with bright, glassy eyes. "It's what, like, the 24th century? Why the hell do we still have paper?"

"I'm not sure I follow you, sir," she said slowly.

"Paper was invented a really, really long time ago," he sighed, speaking in a tone one would use if explaining a difficult concept to young child. Really it was probably just the exhaustion—his fatigue was making it so that even speech was a tiresome undertaking.

"….And now we have all this technology, and yet paper's still here."

He looked at her pointedly. "Don't you ever wonder about stuff like that?"

She didn't know how to respond. Surely other captains did not ramble to their yeomans about the philosophical implications of the resilience of paper.

"I believe Starfleet is just taking extra precautions in regards to its records, Captain."

Paper had almost become obsolete by the end of the 21st century; however, that was before a cyber terrorist hacked into the Federation's mainframe computer system, deleting literally trillions of files and destroying millions of hard drives all via one well-crafted virus. It was not long after this incident that the Federation decided that having tangible records on paper was beneficial should ever computers fail them.

"Yeah, but look how much paper this is!" he said dramatically. "If you think how much paper has been used and reused since its invention—that's a lot of paper."

"I suppose it is, Captain." Curiously, Janice found herself smiling at the Captain's child-like musings. Why was she not annoyed like usual?

"You probably think I'm nuts," Kirk said with a chuckle, running his fingers through tousled dirty-blonde hair. "Ah, I don't know what I'm saying. Sorry."

Janice just shook her head. As she went to reach for another report, her hand brushed the side of his forearm.

He was burning up.

"Captain!" she gasped, alarmed.

"What? Wha'd I do?" he slurred, oblivious to his state.

Ignoring all formality, she quickly placed her hand against his forehead, frowning at the heat she felt.

"You have a fever!" Her tone was almost accusatory.

"M'fine. Just a little tired."

"Captain I really do think—"

"Just read me the next form, Janice, 'kay? The sooner we get this done the sooner we can both get some sleep."

She hesitated, but eventually acquiesced. "Yes sir."

It took a good 45 minutes to get through the next three reports, and by the time they were done the Captain could barely keep his eyes open.

She was packing up the forms and preparing to leave when she glanced at the slumped form in the chair. Noticing the flush of his cheeks, she made the decision to contact the ship's CMO.

Reaching for her communicator, she quietly slipped out of the room and commed sickbay.

"McCoy here."

"Doctor McCoy, this is Yeoman Rand. I thought you might want to check on the Captain—he seems ill."

"I'll be right there. McCoy out."

No less than ten minutes later, McCoy showed up at the door, medkit in hand.

"Well what's wrong with the boy wonder this time?"

"He has a fever," Janice explained softly.

She was a bit surprised that the Doctor's arrival and booming drawl did not awaken the Captain.

"It must be a high fever—Jim's normally a light sleeper," McCoy diagnosed before even reaching the desk. "It's a good thing you commed me."

After scanning the Captain with a tricorder, the doctor frowned, then deftly deposited the contents of a hypo into the younger man's neck.

Kirk was awake immediately, arms swinging and shouting gibberish.

"Jim—_Jim_!" McCoy, with a skill borne of years of practice, firmly latched on to the Captain's wrists. "It's me!"

Abruptly, the younger man stilled, slumping back into the chair.

He looked at McCoy in confusion. "Bones? What are you doing here? Where're the other kids?"

"Jim—you're on the _Enterprise_. You have a high fever."

Jim squinted his eyes shut, his breathing increasing. "No—Kevin was with me. They didn't take him, did they?"

"Jim, Kevin's dead," the doctor said gently. "He's been dead for years. You're delirious."

"Bones—Bones, you gotta help Kevin. He didn't look too good last time I saw him…his head was chopped off."

McCoy looked stricken. Janice, having been observing the whole scene with growing concern, let out a tiny gasp.

And suddenly, the Captain's bleary focus was on her.

"Aunt Lanae?"

The doctor let out an involuntary groan. Janice stood where she was, thoroughly confused, and a little bit frightened.

"No sir…it's Yeoman Rand."

He didn't seem to hear her. "Aunt Lanae…how did you get here?"

She shook her head. "It's okay. It's me, Janice. Remember?"

"Janice?"

"Yes. Janice. We were going over paperwork earlier."

Absently Jim nodded, mulling over her words, the distraction allowing McCoy to pull one of his arms across the doctor's shoulders. "Time for bed, Jim."

"Wha--?"

"You've got a high fever," McCoy explained again. "You're lucky Yeoman Rand called me."

"Janice commed you?"

"Yeah."

"Huh," the Captain sounded mildly surprised as McCoy maneuvered him to his bed. "Thought she didn't like me."

McCoy, remember the Yeoman's presence, met her now guilt-stricken gaze from across the room.

"And she doesn't like it when I use her name," Kirk continued, oblivious to Janice's continued presence. "Why is that, Bones?"

"Well maybe she doesn't like her name, Jim. Some people don't," McCoy responded lightly.

Then, "You need to sleep, Jim. I'm gonna give you a mild sedative."

"No."

"I'm your CMO. I say you're getting a sedative," McCoy retorted, and the familiar hiss of a hypo reached the Yeoman's ears.

"Damn it, Bonesss," came the heavy, sleep-induced response.

The doctor exited the room moments later, fixing Janice with a glare.

"What you saw and heard here tonight does not get repeated to anyone, understand?" he hissed.

"Yes," she answered mechanically. Inside she was churning with questions.

"Good."

She waited until they were in the hallway to snag his sleeve.

"Who's Aunt Lanae?"

McCoy briefly closed his eyes. "Don't."

"I want to know," she insisted.

He turned on her then. "Why? So you can spread it around the gossip mill?"

"No. Because I care."

He snorted. "Pardon my French lady, but bullshit."

"Look I know I can't prove it to you. All I can say is that, from what I've seen tonight, I feel like there are some things I need to know. I feel like if I knew more about him, maybe I could better understand him."

"Whatever happened to accepting people for who they are?"

"Just tell me his story," she insisted, ignoring the rhetorical question.

"It's not my story to tell."

"The bare minimum. That's all I'm asking. Please. And I won't tell a soul." She paused. "I believe I deserve at least some explanation after witnessing what I did in there."

He studied her for a moment, then leaned up against the wall with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Jim's lost a lot of people in his life. His Aunt Lanae was one of them. Jim lived with her for few years when he was a kid."

Janice could tell the doctor was holding back a significant bit of information, but knew she'd better not press her luck if she wanted to get the information she sought.

"How did she die?"

McCoy gave her a hard look. "You want the gory details? She was dragged out of her house, raped and killed right in front of him. Jim was very young."

Janice covered her mouth with her hand.

"She apparently looked a lot like you—or so Jim says."

"He said—he said I look like her?"

McCoy just nodded.

"Do you think—that's the reason why he avoids me all the time?"

The doctor shrugged. "Could be. Or he could just be avoiding paperwork. Jim's a complicated man."

"Doctor…this may sound silly but…do you know why the Captain always insists on calling us all by our first names?"

The older man was silent for a minute, as if considering how he should answer.

Finally, he spoke, deliberate and slow.

"Rand, all I can tell you is that the Captain carries inside of him a long list of the names of those he's lost over the years. Each and every one of those names is important to him. You'll even find that he knows the first names of every crewmember on this starship."

"All 400?" she wondered aloud, skeptical.

"All 4_16_," McCoy corrected. "Jim's past taught him that life is valuable but fragile. He's one of the few starship Captains who realizes that underneath the formalities of title and rank are human beings with stories and families…" he trailed off. "Most starship Captains can't see past the mission, the strategy, the big picture. Either that or they're blinded by the prestige from the discoveries made and battles won. They forget about the lives they put in danger on their so-called missions. Jim's different."

The doctor suddenly looked at her with a something resembling a combination of pity and scorn.

"You'd want him to know you by your first name too, if you were going to die on a mission."

The words hit her like a million tiny darts—goose bumps all over her body.

She had been wrong. Very wrong. The magnitude of her error in judgment—the resentment she'd carried these past nine months—it had all been based on faulty assumptions.

It wasn't that the Captain did not respect her; rather, that he valued her enough to insist on calling her by her first name. He was merely putting a name to a face—adding a bit of humanity to strict, ordered life of the starship.

Things were complicated though, by the fact that she reminded him of the aunt who'd died such a horrible death—probably why he avoided her so much.

"I feel like a fool," she admitted to McCoy. "I judged him unfairly."

The doctor smiled softly, patting her on the arm. "Don't feel too bad. Jim does tend to bring a lot of that on himself."

Janice smiled understandingly before turning to head back down the hall to her own quarters.

She had a lot to think over.

* * *

_3 Days Later…._

"Feeling better, Captain?" She asks as she strides purposely into his quarters.

"I'm feeling great, thanks for asking," he responds, a smile gracing his features.

He is looking much healthier, she notes, pleased to see the return of the ruddiness to his cheeks and the sparkle to those cobalt irises.

"Yeoman…" he begins, only to be interrupted by her sudden frown.

"Janice," she corrects, and watches the surprise and confusion morph his features.

Then she is dazzled by a Kirkian smile—the smile of a thousand suns—and wonders how she could have ever hated this man.

"Alright, _Janice_. I just wanted to apologize for any discomfort I might have caused for you that night when I was sick. I honestly don't really remember too much, but Bones told me you had to call him."

"That's true sir, but it caused me no discomfort."

"Well, at any rate I'm sure it was awkward. Hopefully it won't happen again."

"Hopefully not, sir," she agreed with a compassionate smile.

"What do you got for me today, Rand?" he says, slapping his palm on the table.

"Just three forms to sign, requisitions for supplies."

"Good—I _hate_ paperwork."

Janice laughs. Some things would never change; but she doesn't think she wants them to anyway.

**

* * *

**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Sorry it's been so long! School is ramping up, but ironically, so is the muse.

**Disclaimer**: The characters are not mine. Nor is the ship. They belong to other amazing people.

**Chapter 1**: Assurances

**Synopsis**: In which Nyota Uhura confronts her worst fear. Uhura-centric with Kirk and a hint of Spock.

* * *

_Grace [greys] – moral strength: i.e. the grace to perform one's duties_

_She fears the moment in time when she realizes, with stark terror, that all of her best efforts just aren't good enough._

_

* * *

_

:Present time:

Nyota has always conducted herself well under pressure. She attributes that skill to her optimism—the ability to convince herself that there is always a way out of any difficult circumstance. That belief has made her hard, not only on herself, but on those around her. It leaves no room for excuses…there's always a way out, it's just a matter of finding it.

But as Uhura sits in the middle of this godforsaken desert, she feels helpless for the first time in her life.

* * *

It was a diplomatic mission to a previously uncharted planet.

The _Enterprise_ was going to be the first contact—a high honor and a monumental responsibility.

The crew went through 6 months of intense planning and preparation. The Captain understood not only the importance of success for Federation, but the significance of the mission for the _Enterprise's_ young and relatively inexperienced crew. He'd worked them hard.

It was a dangerous mission, full of unknowns, and Kirk had tried to prepare them for the worst scenarios.

When it came to picking the landing party, he pissed a lot of people off by insisting that he lead it.

"_Captain, regulations mandate…." _

"_Spock, screw the regulations," she'd overheard the Captain say in frustration. "You and I both know that anything could happen down there. Whoever leads that team needs be ready for anything, and there're only two people on this ship who can be trusted with command in that situation, and that's you and me." _

"_Then Captain, logically I would be the best choice—" _

"_No. I already thought about that. Strategically you'd be better off on the _Enterprise_. If something happens down there…you'd be more capable of deciding when to pull out." _

"_You are basing your decision on conjecture?" _

"_No, I'm basing it on a universal theory - Murphy's Law." _

"_I am afraid I am not familiar with such a law, Captain." _

"_Well, it's a very important law, Mr. Spock. You should go look it up," Jim had replied, not unkindly. _

In the end, unsurprisingly, he'd gotten his way_. _

The landing party consisted of herself, Kirk, and two intergalactically renowned scientists, a biologist and a cultural sociologist. She was given the solemn responsibility of figuring out how to communicate with the natives.

They had been transported to the middle of a desert. They walked for about a mile to a nearby settlement, where there had been a high concentration of life readings in the area. But once they arrived, the natives seemed nowhere to be found.

_It was deathly quiet. A few horse-like animals stood around the huts, grazing on little patches of coarse grass beneath their hooves. _

_They tread quietly into the middle of the settlement—Kirk was unnerved, she could read it in his body language. _

_The two scientists wandered around the area, commenting about the comparisons between the huts on this planet to the huts in other cultures, and other things that enthralled them. The Captain had opened his communicator, updating the _Enterprise_ on their current location, and informing them that they hadn't yet made contact. _

"_Doctor, don't go near those huts just yet," Kirk had warned, snapping his communicator closed just as the sociologist reached out in fascination to touch a mud-like wall. _

_As soon as his fingers touched the substance, it transformed. A mud-covered body took form, and the doctor screeched as a stick-like dagger was plunged brutally into his chest. _

"_No!" Kirk had yelled, stepping forward with hands outstretched. "We come in peace!"_

_She had taken over, speaking pacifying words in many different tongues and bits of sign language, trying to communicate. More mud covered beings emerged from what had been the walls of the huts. They quickly surrounded the three remaining team members. _

_The natives watched her intently, but did not seem to understand. In fact, they seemed to be growing more and more irritated. The Captain sensed this, and discreetly pulled out his communicator to try and hail the ship. _

_He yelped as a mud-creature practically ripped the device out of his hands. It then proceeded to crush it with a fist. _

"_They are very strong specimens," the biologist commented, awestruck. _

"_Yeah, no shit," Kirk replied. _

_Suddenly one of the natives decided that he was tired of Uhura's babbling, and slapped her right in the mouth. A thick substance almost instantly dried to her lips, forming a barrier preventing her from being able to speak. She'd looked to the Captain in alarm. He grabbed her arm and began backing away from the creatures. _

"_We're leaving…we don't want any trouble…we're sorry we came," he said calmly as the natives moved closer._

_Another mud creature reached out and snatched the biologist by the ankles, and that was when they turned to run. _

_They hadn't gotten far. _

_She was grabbed from behind and held by one native, watching helplessly as Kirk, out of instinct, tried to fight off his captors. _

_They beat him with thick sticks until the mud and blood were nearly indistinguishable, and she nearly lost it—screaming through the barrier that blocked her mouth, squirming to get free from the native's grasp. _

_For whatever reason, the mud creatures stopped, and dragged her and the Captain into a large hut. _

_He was tossed into a corner with the dead sociologist and a dead-looking biologist. _

_Uhura felt very alone. _

_She was led to a stool and forced to sit through a humiliating inspection. The mud people were fascinated with her. They poked and prodded, stole her communicator and phaser, disintegrating them both, and then began slapping mud onto her skin, which horrified her until she realized what they were doing. _

_The mud was brown, like her skin – they thought she was one of them. _

_Uhura was delighted, because this could be their way out. If she could gain the trust of the natives, she might be able to escape. _

_That night she was left, tied up and shivering, alone in the hut with Kirk and the two dead scientists. (The only way she knew the Captain was still alive was his shifting and groaning while unconscious). _

_He came to mumbling her name, and she could only grunt in return. The mud-like substance was still caked to her mouth, and a part of her feared that it was permanent. _

_The Captain pulled himself up into a half-sitting position, and even in the poor lighting she could tell he was bad off. His eyes weren't focusing right, and his breaths were fast and shallow. _

"_You 'kay, Lieutenant?" he asked. _

_She nodded vigorously, and he gave her a strange look before the memory hit him._

"_Oh…you uh…still can't talk?" She nodded again. _

_There was movement at the front of the hut, and a large mud man came in and glared at Kirk before dragging the lifeless body of the biologist outside. The fact that Kirk was awake didn't seem to bother him. _

"_I wonder what ugly's up to out there," Kirk said with a wince. "You got…you got any ideas for how to get out of here?"_

_She shrugged, but tried to communicate with her eyes that she might have a plan._

_It was lost on him. "Well, don't worry, I'll think of something."_

_Within minutes, the smell of burning flesh began to penetrate the hut, and Kirk swore before getting to his feet. _

_She protested with a loud sound, but was ignored. _

_She watched as he stumbled to the front of the hut where it was dark, and only the faint flickers of an outside fire shone on the entrance walls. He poked his head out for moment before reeling back, lurching toward the wall next to her and falling to his knees. She nudged him with the toe of her boot, and he shook his head, not looking at her. _

"_They're cannibals". _

_Her eyes grew wide with horror, and she nudged him again, harder. He looked up then, and she was wiggling her shoulders, drawing his attention to the bonds which tied her to a wooden post. Wordlessly he worked to free her, and just as he did, they heard the sounds of movement in the doorway. _

_Kirk dropped and rolled next to the dead sociologist, and Uhura put her arms behind her in an attempt to fool the natives into thinking she was still bound. _

_The next thing she knew, both mud creatures lay dead in the doorway, having been killed by a phaser held in Kirk's hands. Immediately she stood and went to help him onto unsteady legs. _

"_Stupid…they forgot to take his phaser or communicator," he explained in a low voice. They staggered out into the night, and managed to make it several yards away from the settlement before Kirk face-planted it. _

_Rolling him over, she'd frantically slapped and pinched his cheeks until he came to, eyes bleary with pain and exhaustion. _

"_Sorry," he'd mumbled as she manhandled him to his feet. _

_The second time they'd made it further into the desert, he having located a mound of rock to hide behind. Once there, he'd promptly collapsed. _

_

* * *

_:Present time:_  
_

She's spent the last half an hour trying to figure out why the communicator isn't working, and she has no light to work with.

The Captain lies to her left where he fell, and she hasn't been able to rouse him. She doesn't know if the mud people will find them here—doesn't want to think about it.

She's scared, but doesn't want to admit it to herself.

The temperature has dropped, and she huddles next to the prone body of her Captain to share heat. She falls asleep listening to his steady, shallow breaths.

* * *

"_Shit_."

Jerking awake at the sound of the expletive, Uhura is embarrassed to find that her head had been resting against her Captain's shoulder. The sun is out, but it's still cool – early morning.

She tries to speak, then remembers that she can't.

"Sorry to wake you. The uh…the communicator's busted. I can't fix it."

She nods, then points to herself and shakes her head. She can't fix it either.

His eyes are dull with pain, and he's covered with blood, most of it from the deep gash on his head; but she knows he has other damages, broken bones, maybe even internal bleeding, after the beating he took.

"I was right," he mumbles suddenly. "Murphy's law."

Then he points off into the distance. "I've been trying to see…if there's water anywhere here. I mean there has to be, right? Mud's just dirt mixed with water. I think there might a pool of it near that vegetation."

She nods and gets to her feet, but he grabs her arm. "Help me up."

She shakes her head, not wanting to hurt him further, but he's stubborn. "Help me or I'll just crawl after you."

They walk until they reach the vegetation, him leaning on her until she can barely hold up his weight, then she eases him down to rest against the trunk of a small tree.

She scrutinizes the water carefully, but there's no way of knowing whether it's safe or not—she doesn't have the equipment. Turning, she sees the Captain struggling out of his gold shirt, which he then hands her.

"Use that," he says breathlessly. "You first."

Obediently, she saturates the material with water, and uses it to literally scrap the caked mud off her lips. It stings, and it takes awhile, but finally her mouth is free.

"You're next," she tells Kirk, but he's slumped over unconscious again.

Worriedly she wets the shirt again, hurries over to her Captain, and begins washing the blood and mud off of his head and face. His skin is warm, and she realizes he probably has a fever.

Moaning, he wakes up and coughs, surprised when flecks of blood splatter the dirt. He looks at her with lackluster eyes. "I'm not doing so good, am I?" he half-jokes.

"You're going to be fine," she responds, but doesn't say it with conviction. They both know that in the event of lost communication between the landing party and the _Enterprise_, Spock has orders to leave the planet's orbit and report to Starfleet for further assistance. They both also know that with his injuries, Kirk won't last that long.

The day continues to drag on, and Uhura can feel the cold fingers of panic begin to clutch at her stomach. The Captain is becoming more and more listless, and she knows the heat of the day is sapping his energy, driving his fever up.

"…think I have a concussion…." he mumbles. "Don't let me fall asleep again." She can sense his fear—which is strange, because fear is not something one associates with James T. Kirk.

"Keep talking then," she orders, placing the cool wetness of the shirt against his head.

"…'bout what?"

She searches her brain for topic that might spark his interest, but she can already see his eyes starting to close.

"Kirk!" she barks. "Tell me…tell me about your first love."

And he's….he's laughing at her. Laughing and coughing, with blood-tinged spittle sprinkling the ground.

"You…you would…ask a question…like that…."

She can't help but smile. "Shut up and tell me."

He straightens a bit, his features relaxing, and he says, "My first…and only love…is that ship up there."

And she finds herself surprised at his honesty.

"Listen to me," he goes on, gasping between breaths. "It might take Spock awhile to get his ass back here with reinforcements…you're gonna need to prepare yourself…you got a phaser, and that's good. Use it for defense…use it for food…and you have water…but you're gonna need better shelter than this."

"Captain, he'll be here, I know it."

"Yeah…but I won't. So there's no sense in wasting your time sitting here…with me…you need to start—" suddenly he's doubled over in pain. "Ohgod…."

His arms are gripping his midsection, and he's panting hard.

All she can do is wrap her own arms around him and hold him through it, praying as hard as she can for a rescue.

She practically loses it when Kirk suddenly goes limp in her arms, blood trailing down from the side of his mouth. Now she knows it's bad, and for the first time, she feels utterly helpless.

There is absolutely no way out of this situation.

Her Captain…her friend, is going to die in her arms out here on this dusty planet, and then she will be alone.

"Dear God, please…" she begins praying out loud, rocking back and forth with Kirk's head in her lap.

She prays and prays and prays, until the sun goes down and the darkness overtakes her.

* * *

She wakes slowly, and it's just before sunup. Looking down, she's surprised to see Kirk with his eyes open, staring at her.

"How are you feeling?"

"H-hangin'…in there," he replies, and she notices he's wheezing, fighting for every breath. It makes her want to cry.

"Th-thought I told you…to leave me."

"I won't. Not yet."

He gives a slight nod, understanding. She won't leave him to die alone.

She begins stroking his hair, and smiles through tear-filled eyes when he closes his eyes and leans into her touch. It's a testament to how far gone he is already.

"T-talk to me?" he asks suddenly, softly.

"About what?" And she can't keep the emotion out of her voice.

"Any…anything," he gasps, and his back arches in a spasm of pain.

"Shhh-shhh…okay," and she begins. "One time I was at this bar in Iowa. And I met this guy—a real jerk."

She glances down at his face and he gives her a sloppy grin. "And I thought he was just another no-name hick. He was a bar-brawler, a womanizer, a chauvinist; and when I saw him on the shuttle to San Francisco the next day, I thought he'd never amount to anything. But he proved everyone wrong. And he's shown himself to be the finest Captain in all of Starfleet, and a very good friend."

She looks down again and he's still staring, but he's got a different look in his eyes. Is it surprise? Or maybe confusion?

"S'okay," he whispers, trying to comfort her. And that's when she feels something break inside of her.

"No…it's not. Please don't leave me. I can't do this."

"Yes…yes you can. You're…s-strong enough. S-strongest…woman I know."

And he looks at her with such conviction that she is compelled to sit up straight and wipe away her tears.

For a few moments there is nothing but the sound of his labored breathing. She tells herself again that they're _going _to get out of here, damn it, one way or another. And even if they don't, she will survive this. She will be strong, for his sake-because he's sacrificed so much for her, for the crew, for his ship.

She will not let him down.

After she pulls herself together she taps his cheek to get his attention. "Hey Kirk…you're not getting off that easy, mister. You'd better not give up or there's going to be hell to pay."

Her voice is firm again and she's got that determined look in her eye—_she's_ _back_.

And he grins weakly. "Yes ma'am."

* * *

Twenty minutes later she hears voices off to her left. Kirk hears it too. "Phaser," he instructs, voice barely audible.

She shifts so she can see around the rock that has been providing them cover, and her eyes zero in on figures in familiar blue, red, and gold. She smiles as she hears the low grumblings of Dr. McCoy.

"Kirk! Spock disobeyed your orders," she calls happily over her shoulder as she waves to get the attention of the rescue party.

"That bastard," she hears him mutter, but knows that he's grinning too.

And she's relieved, _so_ relieved, that this time she didn't have to be that kind of strong.

* * *

Epilogue:

It was close. "_Too damn close_," according to McCoy. But she and Kirk are alive and back on the ship.

They don't talk about their time on the desert planet. But there's a new understanding between them, a kind of truce.

And Uhura is grateful, because no matter how horrible that time was, she still gets to hold onto that unshakeable optimism, and even more so. That is from where she draws her strength.

But even so, she knows that if there ever _were _a truly hopeless situation—that inevitable time when there is no last-minute rescue—she'll be able to handle it.

For she has seen the edge, and no longer fears it. She knows that if needed, she'll be able to take that step off.

* * *

**A/N**: So what do you think, eh? I should've spent my day doing homework and instead I wrote this, so I'd better get some reviews, lol!


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: In the middle of trying to write the next chapter for _Lean On Me_, I was suddenly inspired to write this instead. So…here it is.

**Disclaimer**: If I owned anything even remotely associated with Star Trek, I'd be ballin'.

**Warning**: Not sure if I even need this but to be safe: mild foul language and alcohol use/abuse.

**Chapter 1**: Anniversary

**Synopsis**: Jim just can't let it go. McCoy/Jim centric.

* * *

_Grace [greys] - A temporary immunity or exemption; a reprieve_

_

* * *

_"_The present is the ever-moving shadow that divides yesterday from tomorrow. In that lies hope." _– _Frank Lloyd Wright_

_

* * *

_"_Moving on is a simple thing; what it leaves behind is hard." – Dave Mustaine_

_

* * *

_McCoy didn't like to be around on Jim's birthday.

That was the honest-to-God truth.

He'd done it for years though. So many nights spent with his best friend as he proceeded to drink himself to near-oblivion.

Jim's birthday had never been a celebration, being the anniversary of his father's demise.

Instead, it was a bitter reminder of all that Jim did not have – would never have.

Growing up without his father was singularly the most painful part of Jim. It was an aching, festering wound in his soul, and Jim refused to ever let it heal. Every year he'd rip it open again, reliving years of confusion, longing, and rage.

McCoy hated that self-destructive version of Jim; hated to watch it.

But there was no way he'd leave Jim alone on his birthday; not if he could help it.

The last time he did was back in their academy days. He'd been trying to convince Jim to celebrate for once rather than get himself shit-faced. Jim adamantly refused, which had led to an argument.

* * *

"_What gives you the right to tell me what to do?"_

"_I'll tell you what gives me the right – the fact that I have to patch up your sorry ass every year!"_

"_I never asked you to!"_

"_What the hell else do you expect me to do? Geez, Jim…I know he was your dad, and I know it's a crappy day for you. Just…why _every_ year? Why can't you just _let it go_?"_

_Jim's eyes glinted with something fierce and dark and ugly; the doctor had to look away. _

"_Let it go, huh?" Jim repeated softly in tone devoid of inflection. _

"_Jim I didn't mean it like that…."_

"_Yes you did." _Don't lie.

"_Damn it, Jim. If you'd just listen to me for a minute—"_

"_I think you've made yourself perfectly clear."_

"_Don't be like that, Jim," McCoy protested, his irritation evident._

"_I'm not like anything, Bones. Look, don't worry about it. I get it. No hard feelings, alright? I'll see you later." And just like that, he was gone. _

_McCoy couldn't shake the sick feeling in his gut. He knew he'd wounded his friend. It didn't matter if what he'd said was true – it wasn't what Jim had needed. He'd let Jim down on the day when he most needed his friend's support, and that was inexcusable. _

_Eventually McCoy had resigned himself to finishing up a paper due the following Monday. It took him longer than expected, and he was surprised when he was done to see the clock reading 2 a.m. With a pang of regret, he wondered where Jim was. _

"_Hell, I'm not his mother," he muttered to himself. But the persistent nagging in his gut wouldn't go away. _

_Finally around 3 a.m. he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. He fell asleep on the couch, head facing the door for whenever Jim decided to come back. _

_He was not asleep for long before he heard two muffled thumps at the door. _

_McCoy glanced at the clock as he rose and hurried over to the door. "Damn near 4 a.m.," he grumbled._

_He wasn't quite prepared for the sight of Jim, hanging limply between two frightened-looking cadets._

"_Are you 'Bones'?" One of them asked. _

"_Yeah, get him in here," McCoy replied, jerking his thumb back toward the couch. _

"_He's pretty bad off," the other cadet remarked as Jim was lowered to the couch._

"_What happened?" McCoy demanded, snatching his tricorder off of the coffee table. _

"_He drank a lot…that's all," answered the first cadet. _

"_That's _all_?" McCoy growled. "How much did he drink?"_

"_I don't know; I wasn't with him the whole time."_

"_Well then what _good_ are you?" he snapped. _

"_Hey man, we brought him back here, didn't we?"_

"_Yeah, I'm sure he won't remember to thank you. Now get the hell out of here."_

_McCoy barely registered the two cadets leaving, the door shutting behind them. His sole attention was Jim, who was breathing rather erratically and was frighteningly chill to the touch. _

_The tricorder confirmed the doctor's fears – Jim's temperature was nearly hypothermic, his respirations were shallow, his pulse was sluggish, and even in the dim lighting McCoy could see the bluish tinge to the younger man's lips. Not good._

"_Jim! Jim – wake up!" McCoy called, roughly shaking his friend's shoulders. _

_His answer was a gurgling moan. _

"_Damn it, Jim, open your eyes! This is serious!"_

"_Ssss….ah…bbbnnss…"_

"_That's it, talk to me. It's important Jim. Open your eyes."_

_Drowsy lids fluttered to reveal blood red surrounding irises of grey. _

"_Hhrrtsss…." Jim moaned._

"_Hold on," McCoy urged. "Don't move." _

_He ran to the bathroom, grabbing up the medkit from the counter next to the sink, then ran back to the couch, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste._

_Falling to his knees next to his friend's prone form, he fumbled for the right hypo. _

"_Jim…Jim!" _

"_Ssswhaa…?"_

"_Stay with me, alright? I'm giving you shot."_

"_Sshitt." _

"_Well, at least you're somewhat coherent." _

_Jim didn't flinch as the hypo emptied its contents into the vein in his neck. _

_McCoy deftly deposited two more after that; then went to the kitchen to grab the trashcan._

"_You can't lie on your back, Jim."_

_McCoy tried not to think about how pliable Jim was in his hands as he rolled him onto his side. When this was all said and done they were going to have a long talk._

"_Ffeel shwimmy…"_

"_Yeah, you're gonna puke soon."_

"_Oh."_

_Sure enough, Jim puked for the next hour. Then he suffered from dry heaves that left him shivering uncontrollably. McCoy had nearly panicked, thinking Jim was having a seizure, but a quick scan of the tricorder thankfully negated such a prognosis. _

_Finally, blessedly, around 9 a.m. Jim fell into a natural sleep, and McCoy felt comfortable enough to leave his side for a few moments to get a quick shower. _

_When he was finished, he walked back out to the living room to check Jim's vitals. They were much better. As he stared down at his pale friend, McCoy felt conflicted. On the one hand, he was grateful his friend hadn't died of alcohol poisoning – years ago, with lesser technology, Jim would have needed a stay in the hospital after such a stunt – even today, if Jim hadn't received treatment when he did, he could have easily died. _

_McCoy shuddered. It scared him, his friend's disregard for his own well-being. _

_Indeed, it enraged him, Jim's indifference; his obstinance…his stupidity. _

_Yet he couldn't help but feel partially at fault – if they hadn't fought – if he hadn't lost his temper…could this have been avoided? _

_At the same time, he couldn't be responsible for Jim's poor choices. _

_This way of living had to stop; not only for the sake of Jim's health, but for the sake of McCoy's sanity…and for the sake of their friendship. _

_His musings were interrupted by a whimper as Jim returned to consciousness, bringing a shaky hand up to cover his eyes. _

"_You're feeling it now, aren't you?" _

_Jim didn't bother to reply. _

_Mercifully, the doctor prepared a hypo to counter the effects of a nasty hangover, and emptied it into his patient's bloodstream. _

_Within minutes Jim was blinking at him owlishly. _

"_Well?" McCoy prompted, heading over to the kitchen to start making breakfast. _

_Slowly, Jim sat up, letting his forehead rest against his knees. _

"_I guess I got a little wasted last night," he said, his voice sounding raw. _

_McCoy grunted, slamming around the pots and pans in the kitchen. _

_Jim could only ignore it for so long. _

"_D'ya have to do that?"_

"_Do what?" McCoy growled, yanking open the silverware drawer. _

"_Make all that damn noise," Jim replied, lifting his head. _

_McCoy whirled around, a butter knife held like a sword in his fist. "Just…don't talk to me right now. We're gonna eat breakfast like civilized people, and then we'll talk. But you shut up until then."_

_Jim nodded once, too surprised, tired, and admittedly, a little intimidated by Bones' outburst to even think of a sarcastic comeback. He lay back down on the couch, letting the smells of breakfast lull him into a semi-slumbering state. _

_The next thing Jim knew, McCoy was poking him in the shoulder. "It's ready."_

"_Uggh…" Jim grunted, stumbling to the table. His stomach seemed to protest as soon as he laid eyes on the eggs, bacon, and toast McCoy had prepared. _

"_I don't think I can eat," he mumbled miserably. _

"_Well, you don't have a choice. You haven't had anything except for alcohol in that stomach of yours in almost 16 hours."_

"_Here, start with this," McCoy ordered, filling a glass with orange juice and sliding it across the table. _

_Once Jim managed the juice, he was able to eat two pieces of toast without feeling queasy. By this time his head had cleared a bit, and he was feeling somewhat human again. _

_He studied his older friend, noticing the savage manner in which McCoy stabbed his fork into the eggs, and the angry scraping of his silverware against the plate. It didn't help that he seemed unable or unwilling to look Jim in the eye. _

_Yup. Bones was pissed._

_Feeling a little guilty, Jim swallowed the last piece of his toast and attempted an apology._

"_I guess I should say sorry, huh?"_

_McCoy froze, holding up a hand to silence Jim. "Don't."_

"_What? I really am—"_

"_Jim—if you have any sense in your head, you won't finish that sentence. Go get a shower. You stink. I'll do the dishes; then we'll talk."_

_Maybe it was the dejected slump in his friend's shoulders…maybe it was the look of strain and exhaustion on his unshaven face…but for once in his life, Jim did what he was told. _

_Twenty minutes later Jim walked into the kitchen, clad in loose fitted sweatpants and a grey t-shirt. _

_He sat down at the table and mumbled a quick "thanks" as Bones set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Taking a sip, he refused to make eye contact with his friend as he took the seat opposite him. _

"_So…you gonna yell at me?"_

"_Would it change anything?" McCoy retorted, weariness evident in his voice._

_Jim shrugged. _

"_You could have died last night, you know." _

"_I'm sorry I freaked you out," Jim replied. _

"_Damn it, it's not about that Jim! It's not about me – it's about you! Why do you do this to yourself?"_

"_Well, I'm sorry, but I can't just 'let it go'," he snarled._

_McCoy sighed at his words being thrown back at him. "Look. I shouldn't have said that, and I'm sorry. Nobody would expect you to ever completely get over your father's death. But doing this every year is not dealing with it – it's letting it destroy you."_

_Jim was quiet for a long time. _

_Then he sighed. "I hear what you're saying, Bones. I'm just…I'm not there yet."_

_McCoy nodded, knowing that was as good an answer as he would get. "Okay." _

_He stood up, stretched, and ran a hand over his scruffy face. "I don't know about you but I need a few solid hours of uninterrupted sleep."_

_Jim just nodded, still looking thoughtfully down into his coffee cup. _

_McCoy slapped him on the back as he walked past. "Oh…and happy birthday, kid."_

_Jim just smirked, the amusement never quite reaching the washed-out blue eyes._

_

* * *

_From then on, every birthday, McCoy was there. Some years were better than others, but none were as bad as that one back at the academy.

They'd never discussed Jim's self-destructive habits again, not really. It was unstable ground, and McCoy gradually realized that the one thing Jim needed was stability – especially on his birthday.

He used to read articles about kids who had suffered childhood trauma, the kind of kids with attachment problems because no adult had ever stayed in their life long enough to show them unconditional love. Those articles had nothing on Jim Kirk–the kid had enough trust issues to fill volumes of psychology journals.

For numerous reasons he himself would never fully understand, McCoy had made it his own private mission to be a steady constant in Jim's life; eventually, Jim had come to trust him. It was a unique relationship; they were best friends, brothers, and yet McCoy had always filled a kind of paternal role for Jim, though he wasn't much older.

It worked because they each fulfilled a need in the other. Jim needed somebody to care about him. McCoy needed somebody to look after.

Unfortunately he wasn't able to look after his friend much this year.

This year, Jim's birthday occurred during a particularly hellish week for McCoy – over half the crew had contracted a rather contagious strain of an interplanetary virus. It was so bad that the _Enterprise_ was incapacitated—forced to dock at Starbase 6 until the worst of it was over.

Jim of course, had been one of the first ones to fall ill, but he'd been recuperating in his quarters for several days now. He hadn't heard a word from McCoy in that time. He knew the doctor was running himself ragged down below, so Jim was content to stay out of the way for awhile. He spent his time catching up on paperwork, reading, and playing long hours of chess with Spock who, being Vulcan, was of course immune to the virus.

But on Friday, Jim locked himself in his quarters, with an automated request that he not be disturbed by anyone for at least 24 hours, unless it was emergency.

Spock recognized the implications immediately, and went to seek out doctor McCoy.

He entered a sickbay in a state of chaos, but managed to get the attention of the head nurse.

"Nurse Chapel, where is Doctor McCoy?"

"Probably in his quarters. He was relieved about six hours ago – we finally got a med team from the Starbase to help us out. Do you need something, Spock?"

"No, that will be all. Thank you, nurse."

He swiftly made his way to McCoy's quarters.

Spock surmised the doctor was most likely sleeping, as it took several moments for him to answer the door. When he finally did, his hair and clothes were quite disheveled, confirming Spock's hypothesis.

"Spock? What do you want?" the physician asked gruffly.

"I apologize for disturbing you, doctor, however I was wondering if you were aware of the date."

McCoy glared. "You came here to ask me the date? S'is some kind of joke, Spock?"

"Doctor, I do not 'joke'. I came here with a legitimate concern regarding the wellbeing of our Captain."

It took the doctor a minute to unscramble Spock's message. "You're concerned about Jim?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't just stand there, tell me what's wrong!" McCoy spat.

"Doctor, I need not remind you that today is the anniversary of the Kelvin disaster."

McCoy's face fell immediately. "Shit."

"Pardon me….?" Spock replied, cocking his head in confusion.

"It's Jim's birthday. I was so busy I forgot."

"The performance of your duties in sickbay have been more than commendable, doctor."

McCoy squinted at the compliment, high praise coming from Spock – and it took him off guard.

"Yes well…you can come in if you want. I'm just gonna fresh up a bit and then go looking for Jim."

"You need not look far. The Captain has locked himself in his quarters, hence my initial cause for concern. As to your invitation, I must decline as I have other pressing matters to attend to."

His back was turned and moving away before McCoy could even thank him for stopping by.

"Pointy-eared leprechaun…." He muttered as the doors slid shut behind him.

He used his medical override to break in to Jim's quarters.

The lights were dimmed, and McCoy could smell the distinctive scent of Mac-n-cheese from the food regenerator. At least it wasn't the overwhelming stench of alcohol.

"Jim," he called, swallowing a bit of alarm when he received no response. As he walked farther back, he could here muffled voices coming from Jim's room. It sounded like a recording.

As he neared, the static-laced recording became more discernable, and McCoy suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

"_Impact Alert."_

"_What are we going to call him?"_

"_We can name him after your father…"_

"_Tiberious? Are you kidding me? No, that's the worst. Let's name him after your dad. Let's call him Jim."_

McCoy leaned against the wall just outside the door, listening with a heavy heart to the unmistakable sounds of George Kirk's last words to his wife.

Jim must have hacked the system to find the transmission, because it certainly was classified material.

He grew quite disturbed as he listened to the transmission loop back and repeat. This was not healthy. In that moment McCoy realized he would have to accept the fact that Jim was unlikely to ever break out of this morbid fascination with his father's death…would likely never end his annual self-punishment…would likely never allow himself to celebrate his own life, his own birth.

It was with a heavy spirit of resignation that he entered Jim's bedroom.

"How long have you been listening to that?"

"_Our gravitational sensors are going crazy, here. You should see this. It looks like a lightning storm."_

Jim was sitting on the floor, half a bowl of uneaten Mac-n-cheese sitting next to him; a bottle of beer in his hand. The recording's volume was low enough that they could easily talk and hear each other over the sounds. Even so, Jim didn't answer.

McCoy changed tactics.

"Got any beer left?" Which, of course, was merely a careful rephrasing of the real question. Some things would never be forgotten.

"Don't worry. I've only had one," Jim replied quietly, knowingly.

"_I have a reading…" _

"_They've locked weapons on us!"_

"_Red alert!"_

"_Torpedoes locked on 320 degrees mark 2…."_

"Well, at four in the evening I'd say that's a pretty late start for you," McCoy commented, dropping down next on the floor next to his friend.

"Sorry I haven't been by…been a little crazy lately."

"S'okay."

"_All power to forward shields!"_

"_Are our shields even up?"_

"_Decks seven to thirteen, we have confirmed casualties…."_

"How've you been feeling?"

"I'm fine, Bones," Jim said, but something in his voice sounded…off.

With startled realization, McCoy notice that Jim was crying. Silently, with tears sliding down his face and dripping off of his chin onto the floor.

"Damn it, Jim…I'm sorry I wasn't around earlier. I forgot what day it was."

"Bones, you're the freaking CMO of a starship suffering an epidemic. Don't apologize."

"Fine then...I won't." McCoy retorted, though his voice held no malice.

For a few minutes man said anything, before Jim broke the silence with a sigh.

"How is it down there?"

"It's a damn mess, that's what it is—we're lucky we got our reinforcements today because we were running out of medical supplies and able-bodied personnel."

"How long did you work down there before you were relieved?" Jim asked, already guessing the answer.

"I'd estimate three days, but who's counting?"

"Didya' get any sleep?"

"Enough," McCoy replied simply. "Actually, I was sleeping quite soundly until our Vulcan friend decided to show up outside my quarters."

"Spock? What'd he want?"

"It was logical for him to be concerned about your welfare, since you decided it'd be a good idea to lock yourself in your quarters without reason," McCoy grumbled sarcastically.

"Oh."

"_I'm initiating General Order Thirteen. We're evacuating._

"_All decks: this is the Captain speaking. Evacuate the ship immediately. Get down on the shuttlecrafts. I repeat, evacuate immediately…."_

"You know if anybody knew you had copy of this transmission you could face charges?"

Jim's jaw clenched. "I got a right."

McCoy nodded. "I suppose you do."

"_Auto-pilot function destroyed…manual operation only…."_

"You never answered my first question…how many times have you listened to this today?"

"Does it matter?" Jim replied softly.

"_George…the shuttle's leaving…where are you?"_

"_Sweetheart, listen to me. I'm not gonna be there. This is the only way you'll survive."_

"_Please don't stay on the ship – you have to be here!"_

"_The shuttles will never make it if I don't fight them off."_

The transmission garbled with static, and then the sounds of a baby's cries could be heard.

"That's you," McCoy commented, nudging Jim gently in the arm.

Jim let out a wry chuckle, the smile quickly fading.

"_What is it?"_

"_It's a boy…."_

"_A boy? Tell me about him!"_

"_He's beautiful…George, you should be here."_

"_Impact alert…."_

"_What are we going to call him?"_

"Do you remember…that talk we had about…the difference between remembering and letting the memories destroy you?"

"Well, I don't remember putting it like that, but yes."

"I told you I wasn't ready."

"I know."

"_Sweetheart, can you hear me?"_

"_I can hear…."_

"_I love you so much…I love you…."_

Jim jerked as if coming out of a trance as the transmission ended abruptly. He sniffed loudly, wiping his face on the sleeve of his t-shirt.

"Here," he said, plucking the transmission tape out of the computer and handing it to McCoy. "Take it. Get rid of it for me."

McCoy frowned, not understanding. "What? Why?"

Jim shrugged. "I don't need it anymore."

"Jim…are you sure?"

His eyes bright with unshed emotion, Jim exhaled.

"Yeah. I'm sure. Besides…it's all in here." He lightly tapped the left side of his chest.

He smiled then, a soft, less-broken-looking expression, and reached out to punch his friend lightly in the arm.

"So what are we doing for my birthday, Bones?"

* * *

"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens, but it is never gone." -Rose F. Kennedy


End file.
